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The tenderness of snow is fake this timeThe sky is dressed as a bride who runs away

A candlestick cold shuts down over sunsetI’ve never seen snow before, the snowflakes are nailstarget aiming my eyes, forehead, they carve new names for solitudes hoary…

Then, from the black womb comes the dawn of basaltand too late the light… cure fears

these tiny white balls are the prayers of childrenturnedWe, those with the experience, we will not receive answer,like the blind birds we will cross worlds of water and smokedeprived also of this latter false tenderness